


DestiELF

by GuardianLadySkye



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas Fluff, Flustered Dean, Gen, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Mild Angst, Socially Awkward Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1504547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianLadySkye/pseuds/GuardianLadySkye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Dean hates working in Santa's Workshop until he meets Castiel, the stranger who stares and can't understand Christmas carols. Inspired by Will Ferrell's 2003 holiday movie "ELF." (I know it sounds like a crack!fic, but I swear it's not.) <br/>*Currently on hiatus, but WILL BE COMPLETED. (eventually)*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All I Want For Christmas is for You to Stop Staring

It was two weeks till Christmas, and all Dean wanted was for the guy to stop _staring_ at him. It wasn’t like he wore this stupid uniform for kicks. He hated every thread of the curly-toed shoes, the jester hat, and the collar that made him look like the Kermit of Christmas Hell. (Not to mention all the goddamned bells that jingled every time he fucking _breathed_.) Lord knew he’d fought hard to keep his customary jeans and layers of plaid, even going so far as to promise red-and-green colour coordination. But Boss Lady Pamela simply smiled and said that the elf getup “brought out his pretty green eyes.” Benny had laughed his ass off when he’d gotten his first eyeful of Dean’s ill-fitting tunic and striped pants, and Sam had offered about as much sympathy after that bearded bastard sent him a photo.

 

Dean wished more than anything that he could be in the garage every day of the week, not this overpriced mall that played the same ten Christmas carols over and over again. Oil washed off easier than glitter, and Dean would much rather have his nostrils filled with the smell of exhaust than the odor of cheap gingerbread candles. But even with Sammy’s full ride to Stanford, there were still other expenses that had to be paid for, and just working at the garage wasn’t enough anymore. Not if Dean wanted to help his brother while keeping his apartment here. So he swallowed his pride (more like slit its throat and buried it in a ditch) and became the bitch of St. Nicholas.    

 

At least he’d managed to talk Pam out of making him wear the ears. And the tights. Dear God, the tights. Not only would it have been the death of his man card, but from the current angle, this stranger would’ve been able to see way more of Dean than he was prepared to show off. Dean still felt very much on display however, because this dude had been standing there for nearly five minutes, unmoving, and it was starting to get annoying. Had it been earlier in the day, when consumerism was at its peak, Dean probably wouldn’t have given him a second glance. Now, in the last hour of business, every customer was noted. At least the height from the ladder spared him face-to-face awkwardness with this weirdo.

 

“Enjoying the view?” Dean finally asked, refusing to meet the stranger’s eyes as he tweaked tree branches to make the lights sit the way he wanted. O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree, why don’t you go straight to Hell. He had been working on this blasted thing since lunch, and while it still wasn’t perfect, it was good enough for him, damnit. He was tired, he was hungry, and he could really use a few beers. He didn't give a rat's ass what this creep had to say. Plenty of men his age smirked at him as they walked by with their wives or girlfriends; some of them tried to pick a fight, but Dean had a dozen different variations of sarcasm ready to fire back. If his verbal elbow jab went unnoticed by Sir Stares-A-Lot, he was locked and loaded. _Listen chuckles, we’ve all gotta make a living somehow, I didn’t pick the outfit, and if you’ve got some fashion tips you can shove ’em right up your—_

 

“You are very good at decorating that tree.”

 

 _Whoa._ Though his tone was soft, Dean was caught way off-guard by the gravel in this dude’s voice. Definitely didn’t expect that. He had completely expected this to be a prank—Benny was always eager to send someone to mess with Dean on his behalf—but the sentence was so simple and direct that it stopped the biting retort that had crept onto his tongue. It was as if he were informing Dean of the colour of his eyes, or the fact that he had freckles. Dean inclined his head, and his first clear glimpse of the stranger came in the form of a battered trenchcoat. His eyes moved up. The lights from the tree cast a soft yellow glow on the stranger’s face, illuminating the bluest fucking eyes Dean had ever seen on a person. Any other detail about this guy disappeared against the intensity of those eyes. Dean suddenly felt very small, as if he were standing beneath thousands of constellations, all infinite and powerful. If he had felt exposed before, he felt downright naked now.

 

_“Oh by gosh by golly_

_It’s time for mistletoe and holly…”_

 

A Frank Sinatra song, of all things, brought Dean back to reality. He turned his own green eyes back to the tree, almost hearing the snap of their broken connection. He focused on the lyrics, the ornaments, the branches, the lights: anything to shake this lingering feeling of nakedness. He blamed the bulbs for the sudden wave of heat he noticed passing over him. Dean remembered that the stranger had complimented him. He should probably say something back.

 

“Well, that’s what they pay me for,” he remarked, more easily than he anticipated. _That’s it. Take control. Find a way out._ Dean reached up to secure the tree-topping angel before descending his ladder. He winced at the obnoxious jingling of the bells attached to his Kermit collar. “Honestly, I’m just trying to get through the holidays. Can I help you find something?” _Please say no. Please say no._

 

The stranger quirked his head and squinted. “Do you not enjoy Christmas?”

 

He seemed genuinely puzzled, as though he couldn’t think of a single logical reason for Dean not to revel in the celebration of Jesus’ birth. (Dean could hear Sam in his head, correcting and lecturing him about Christmas originally being a Pagan holiday with Jesus’ birth actually being closer to spring, and shooed him away.) Dean shrugged as he picked up a basket of teddy bears, hoping the guy would take the hint and leave him be. Dean wasn’t trying to be rude, but he did have a job to do after all. Besides, he wasn’t about to just drop everything and tell a complete stranger precisely why he didn’t dig Christmas, even though that stranger had just performed open-soul surgery on him. Schooling his face into an expression of passive politeness for the handful of customers milling about, Dean walked away to begin restocking the shelves. The trenchcoat followed him. _Damnit._

 

“Why do you clothe yourself in its colours and tend the trees in this shrine if you do not enjoy the occasion itself?”

 

Okay, this guy was getting way too philosophical for a Tuesday evening. Hell, forget the day of the week, what kind of person asked those types of questions in the middle of Santa’s Workshop? Dean actively ignored the genuine curiosity in the man’s voice, too focused on regaining his sense of solitary peace.

 

“Look man, I—”

 

He turned around, ready to echo part of his abandoned retort from earlier, but it committed suicide in his throat when he came eye-to- _fucking blue eyes_ with the man. The concept of personal space was utterly lost on this dude; he was close enough to make Dean worry about the volume of his heartbeat. The questioning look was still furrowing his brow, chapped lips pursed together, as though Dean were a Rubix cube and he was trying to figure out the right combination. Dean could see the stubble that flecked the man’s cheeks and jaw, could smell the earth, pine and fruit (wait, fruit?) on his skin.

 

Dean tried to regain his personal bubble by backing away, but only succeeded in stumbling into the display, sending a family of teddy bears tumbling to the floor.

 

“Ah, shit…!” The swear slipped out before he could remember himself, and he quickly stooped to gather the bears in his arms. He offered an apologetic smile to a woman whose head had whipped around at his utterance. Her judgmental eyes swept over him coolly before she stalked off, tightly gripping the hand of her small blonde daughter. Dean sighed. On second thought, it might have to be a whiskey night instead. Those infernal bells jingled away happily on his head while the stranger just stood over him, watching. Dean’s embarrassment almost got the better of him, but he retreated behind his well-practiced bluntness as he straightened up, keeping his back to the stranger as he rearranged the display.

 

“We do what we gotta do to pay the bills. Just because I dress like Santa’s minion for a few hours every day doesn’t mean I sing carols everywhere I go. I can celebrate Christmas just fine without singing about rockin’ around the tree.”

 

He knew he was being a dick now, and he felt a little guilty about it, but Dean rationalized it to himself. He’d been eye-fucked by this guy for over fifteen minutes now, had his soul practically spit-roasted, been followed around, questioned incessantly…fuck it all, he was tired. Carefully avoiding Trenchcoat’s gaze, Dean made his way to the front register to stow the empty basket. Even with ten minutes left till closing, he was surprised at how deserted the counter was. He was about to do a pre-count of the drawer when his peripherals noticed a tan-clad figure coming his way. Dean sighed, inwardly this time, as he raised his weary green eyes to the approaching stranger’s face, pointedly avoiding the two orbs of shocking blue. He watched as pink, chapped lips carefully formed a new sentence.

 

“But is it not customary to sing praises for this holiday?”

 

Christ on a cracker, this guy was a trenchcoat full of questions. By all accounts, Dean should feel utterly exasperated at this point. But this time, no matter how much he wanted to, Dean couldn’t ignore the almost desperate sincerity that softened the deep voice. This guy really wanted to know. And Dean knew that. He’d known from the very first sentence out of the guy’s mouth that he wasn’t fucking with Dean. Dean knew when people had a hidden agenda when they talked to him. He could see it in the little facial tics they thought they hid so well. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe this guy was like one of those lonely people that didn’t have anyone to talk to, and so scoured for conversation wherever he could find it. Dean could relate to that, although his “conversations” were typically held with varying sizes of bottles and bodies.

 

Perhaps against his better judgment, Dean locked eyes with him again. Blue eyes pleaded for the answer, as though it were the only answer he would ever need for the next thousand years. Drained and aching for a drink, Dean decided to humour him.

 

“Yeah, usually. I mean, there are a bunch of Christmas songs, but here we only play about three.”

 

Dean pointed up to the ceiling, where “The 12 Days of Christmas” was pouring softly out of the speakers. The stranger tilted his head back, following the direction of Dean’s finger, and just stood there, apparently in deep thought over the lyrics. Dean took the opportunity to give him a proper once-over. A dark blue tie hung crooked and backwards around his neck. The white dress shirt underneath it badly needed to meet an iron, as did his black slacks. His trenchcoat seemed to swallow him, and his wayward hair was a lost cause. He looked like a tax accountant that had been thrown out on his ass. Dean suddenly wondered if he even had a place to stay. He didn’t see a ring on either hand. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the poor bastard didn’t have a single penny to his name.

 

“I don’t understand.” Gravel rumbled in his throat as he met Dean's eyes again. “Why is European poultry given as a gift?”

 

Confusion briefly distorted Dean’s features before his face cracked into a grin. His bells jangled noisily as he shook with laughter, and the dude’s intense face just made it all the better. This son of a bitch was secretly funny, whether he knew it or not. Damn, Dean had needed that laugh.

 

“Honestly, man,” Dean managed through a hefty snigger, “I really couldn’t tell you. This song’s been around forever, I have no idea what they’re talking about.”

 

The stranger had appeared worried for Dean’s safety with how hard he was laughing, but now his face relaxed, even if it was just slightly. Dean wondered vaguely if he even knew how to smile. “Are all songs this complex?”

 

“Not really,” Dean answered. “They’re all basically saying the same thing: eat, drink, and be jolly.” As he spoke, he realized that he was having a conversation with a stranger about the complexity of Christmas carols. What the hell had happened to his life?

 

Trenchcoat nodded, as if Dean had said something terrifically profound. He seemed to hang on to every word Dean said. Dean thought about how many people must have passed over this guy like he tried to do when all he’d wanted was someone to talk to.

 

“May I hear another one?”

 

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the robotic announcement of the five-minute warning. It was just then that Dean noticed he and Trenchcoat were the only ones left in the store. Now that he’d had a chance to talk to the guy and discover that he wasn’t a total creep, Dean almost felt let down by the fact that he had to kick him out, especially since he wasn’t entirely sure that he had anywhere to go.

 

“We’re closin’ right now,” he said, much more gently than he usually did. “You, uh…you can’t stay.”

 

If there was hurt in those blue eyes, it disappeared before Dean could recognize it. The stranger nodded once. “I understand.”

 

“Sorry about that.” Dean actually meant it.

 

A pause settled between them. Dean briefly considered asking if he had a place to sleep tonight, but let the question stay in his mind. It was none of his business. If the guy needed a place to stay, he would have said something. Dean gathered up the keys sitting beside the register, and the stranger looked very pensive, like he was having a private argument with himself. Dean absently licked his lips, waiting. The stranger faced Dean, apparently having come to some sort of resolution.

 

“If I come back tomorrow, will you let me hear another one?”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows. This guy wanted to come back tomorrow, just so they could dissect another Christmas carol? The weirdness Dean should have felt at that wasn’t there, which made him even more uneasy. Instead, he felt like he’d downed a shot of bourbon. And why the hell did he feel _regret_ , of all things? Tomorrow was Wednesday. He was at the garage on Wednesdays.

 

“I’m, ah…” Dean rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, the tinkling bells making it even more awkward. In a flash of annoyance he tugged the god-awful jester hat off. To hell with it. “I’m actually not here tomorrow. But you can still come back; we play these songs every day.”

 

“No,” the stranger refused. “I want to come back when you are here. When will you be back?”

 

Dean bit his lip, torn. Yeah, their discussion had been interesting, and yeah, Dean wouldn’t really mind seeing him again, but he didn’t want this—whatever this was—to become a thing. He needed this job. He needed the money. If this guy came back looking for a conversation, Dean wouldn’t always be able to indulge him like he was now. Pam liked him, but not enough to let him sit on his ass and gab his way through a shift. The stranger continued to stare as Dean wrestled with himself. Though his expression was patient, it was clear that he only wanted one answer.

 

“Thursday.”

 

 _Fuck._ All it took was one word. Dean ran his fingers through his undoubtedly mussed hair, disturbed by how calm he felt about handing out his schedule to somebody he hardly knew. The stranger nodded again, satisfied.

 

“Very well. I’ll come back Thursday.”

 

_“Attention shoppers, the time is now 9:00 and our store is closed.”_

 

All at once, the lights softened, the latest rendition of “Carol of the Bells” cut out, and Dean’s stomach flipped uncomfortably. What the stranger had said wasn’t just a statement. It was a promise. Gripping the keys tightly in his hand, Dean came around the counter and motioned for Trenchcoat to follow him. No other words were exchanged as they made their way along the short corridor that fed out into the mall. Dean knew that he should have locked the back door first, but he didn’t want the guy to be standing alone in a dimly-lit Santa’s Workshop. Dean pushed the door open, noting the crowd of last-minute shoppers being herded out by mall security.

 

“Thank you,” came the stranger’s deep voice.

 

It was Dean’s turn to nod. “No problem.” He met the stranger’s eyes again. It was getting easier to do so now. He then swapped the keys to his left hand and extended his right. “Dean.”

 

As blue eyes looked down at his proffered hand, it occurred to Dean that introducing himself like this was pretty stupid when his name was clearly pinned to his chest. Then again, the dude had spent so much time looking into Dean’s eyes that he probably passed right over it. Slowly, as if it were his first handshake—and who’s to say it wasn’t?—the stranger wrapped his fingers around Dean’s hand and gently squeezed. He was warmer than Dean would have suspected. And stronger.

 

“Hello, Dean. I am Castiel.”

 

Weird-ass name for a weird-ass dude. But, Dean thought, it suited him.

 

“Alright, Castiel. See ya Thursday.”

 

Dean shook, then dropped his hand as he stepped back into the doorway. He watched Trenchcoat— _Castiel_ —walk out into the darkened mall, and when he disappeared into the crowd of stragglers, Dean closed and locked the door. He headed back down the corridor, deciding once and for all that it was definitely a whiskey night.


	2. Santa Baby, Won't You Please Stop Creepin' On Me?

A heavy sigh and bones crackling were the sounds that greeted Dean’s apartment on Wednesday evening. The oil-glazed tenant trudged through the door, too tired to even shiver at the freezing gust that followed him. It had been one hell of a day at the garage: two engine block heater installations, a few oil changes, a busted alternator, and a 45-minute debate with some uptight British bitch over the cost of a transmission repair. She was so cheap he’d been tempted to overcharge her out of spite, but instead took her down with some well-placed sarcasm. Benny was working a double shift at his goddaughter’s restaurant, Ash was nursing a hangover, and Garth had the day off to do sock puppet shows at the children’s hospital, so Dean was the main man in the shop. He didn’t mind overtime once in a while, but today he had clocked out three and a half hours past his schedule.

And if that weren’t enough, his focus had been all over the place due to a certain pair of blue eyes that wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone. Castiel’s eyes. Though he knew it was none of his business, it didn’t stop him from thinking about where Castiel ended up after he left the Workshop last night. Dean thought of him crouching in a back alley somewhere, shivering in the fresh snow. He wondered if Castiel rolled up his trenchcoat and used it for a pillow. He felt bad for not even giving the guy a couple dollars for a sandwich. Every time he looked at the cobalt fabric of his uniform, Dean heard that gravelly voice. Castiel’s voice. He was glad that Christmas music was banned in the shop, otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten a damn thing done.

_“I’ll come back Thursday.”_

The words echoed in Dean’s head, and he couldn’t tell if it was dread or anticipation that messed with his stomach like that. Shaking his head, Dean closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar staleness of his apartment, the place he called home. It was a shithole, really: a one bedroom, one bath bachelor pad with a tiny kitchenette and a radiator that rattled like a boxcar. Dean’s mini fridge was usually stocked with Chinese takeout and beer, and a twin mattress on the floor was where he slept. It had its share of lumps, but it was better than the two-seater couch (which had been an absolute beast to carry up four flights of stairs). While it wasn’t fancy, Dean’s place was tidy, although he never used it for entertainment. That always happened in someone else’s bed. The only person who came over was Benny, if he needed somewhere to crash after getting wrecked.

He tossed his jacket onto the bed and shrugged out of his jumpsuit, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. He didn’t even kick it into the closet. He was too focused on taking a shower, warming up with some bourbon, and getting some much-needed shuteye. Dean yawned and headed to the bathroom, jumping a little when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Flipping it open, he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face when he saw Sam’s name on the screen. Funny how three simple letters could be a thousand times more effective than bourbon.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said as he brought the phone to his ear. This was a distraction he always welcomed. “How’s California?”

“Sam,” his younger brother corrected hurriedly. “Dean, finals are this week.”

“Already?” Dean sat down on his mattress. “Don’t you like, get a break or something before all that?”

“No.” He sounded strung out, like he hadn’t seen his bed for three days and was taking 5-Hour Energy intravenously. Knowing Sam like Dean did, he was probably doing just that. The kid was a damn perfectionist, always wanting to get A’s in everything. The work ethic went hand-in-hand with a legal career, although Dean warned him against burning himself out. Judging from the way he was babbling, it seemed that the caffeine he was chugging was doing him no favours.

“I get to take four finals over the next two days, and _then_ I get a break. I’ve taken two already, and I’m stressing out because I keep getting the Amendments mixed up and Professor Roman is gonna expect me to know all of them in their exact order and if I don’t get them all right then I won’t pass and—”

“Sammy. Sam!” Dean interrupted. “Breathe. You’re gonna do great.”

“But Professor Roman is really strict—”

“Hey,” he scolded, moving into his parental tone like a reflex. “You’re gonna run yourself into the ground if you keep going like this. Did you even eat today?”

“Dean—”

“How many hours of sleep did you get last night?”

Dean winced at the huff of frustration blown into his ear. “I don’t have _time…”_

“There’s always time for four hours and a granola bar, Sammy. You gotta take care of yourself.”

Before Sam had a chance to sass him (as Dean knew he would), he added, “Look, it’s one guy, and one class. Just do your best. A ‘B’ is not the end of the world.”

No remark came from Sam’s end. Dean’s shoulders slumped, though he didn’t remember throwing them back. He could just picture his little brother: sitting alone in his dorm, textbook open under the light of his tiny desk lamp, hair mussed, rubbing tiredly at his bloodshot eyes. He felt a little guilty for trying to be the parent that Sammy didn’t need or ask for, but it came out of sheer habit. In the first calm moment of the conversation, Dean took the opportunity to switch back into big-brother mode. “And if this dick gives you any grief, tell him to cram it with walnuts.”

He grinned when he heard Sam’s exasperated sigh, which meant that his little brother was trying hard not to laugh. He was winning. Encouraged, Dean continued.

“Want me to come down there and stab him in the throat?” he asked cheerfully.

“Dean…no,” Sam chided, though Dean could hear the smile in his voice. Mission accomplished. He promised himself that he would buy Sammy a big jug of eggnog to celebrate when he went down there for Christmas. A growing smile of his own crinkled the corners of his eyes. Building Sammy back up was a specialty he could take pride in. With the way they grew up, there weren’t a lot of laughs to be had, but Dean tried to make things better for his little brother any way he could. It was just the two of them, and Dean was not above lying, stealing, or cheating for the only family he had left.

“You know I’m proud of you no matter what. Just keep studying, and take care of yourself. They don’t give full rides to morons and slackers, Sammy, you’ll be fine.”

“It’s _Sam,”_ the voice on the other end snapped, with no bite. “And I know they don’t, Jess tells me the same thing.”

Dean smirked, lying back on his mattress. Jess came up in their conversations an awful lot lately. He’d talked to her a couple times on the phone. Never met her in person, but that would change soon. She was funny, pretty (from what he could tell in the picture Sam sent him), and damn sharp. He was glad that somebody could be there when he couldn’t. Especially a girl. He hoped that Jess was getting Sam to put the books down once in a while.

“How is Jess?” he asked.

“Hi, Dean!” As if on cue, a bright female voice spoke into the phone. Dean’s smirk turned into a grin. “Hey, Jess! You takin’ care of my little brother for me?”

“She’s, ah, she’s fine.” Sam sounded embarrassed. Jess said something in the background, and he shushed her.

“Sammy’s getting you something nice for Christmas, right?” Dean leered. “Some elf panties?”

“Very funny.” The bitchface was so clear in Dean’s mind it was almost as though Sammy were standing right in front of him.

“I get a discount at Santa’s Workshop, just tell me what you want and I can bring ’em over. We even do gift wrapping.” Dean glanced at his closet, where he knew Sam’s beautifully-wrapped Christmas present sat hidden underneath a mess of clothes and car magazines.

“Wait, bring them over?”

Sam sounded confused and almost panicked, though Dean couldn’t understand why. Maybe all that caffeine and studying really was doing something to his brain.

“Yeah, I was thinking I could drive out there a couple days before Christmas, spend it with you guys, crash in your dorm. They allow devilishly handsome visitors, right?”

“Um…”

Dean blinked and sat up, grin faltering. This wasn’t one of Sam’s overstudying slip-ups. Something wasn’t right. Fear added to the gooseflesh gathering on his skin. Christmas was their day. It wasn’t so much the holiday that Dean liked, but the memories. Being the awesome brother he was, Dean took it upon himself early on to make sure December 25 was full of magic for Sammy. Granted, the magic sort of fell apart one year when the presents he stole ended up being girl’s toys, and Sammy was too smart to believe his half-assed excuses. They mainly stuck to homemade gifts after that, until Dean was old enough to bring in a paycheck. It was a tradition, and Dean made sure to follow through every year. He didn’t mind including Jess, if that was what made Sammy happy. He shivered for the first time since answering the phone.

“I mean…” He cocked a grin, mustering up his usual bravado. “If you and Jess want some, ah… _alone time_ I can rent a motel or somethin’, it’s no problem—”

“Dean…” Sam spoke slowly. “Jess invited me to spend Christmas with her and her family.”

What remained of Dean's grin flattened into an impassive line. That weird feeling was back in his stomach, except this time he knew what emotion came along for the ride. There was a cold block in the centre of Dean’s chest, and the crackling static was like an avalanche in his ear. But only a second passed before a dozen wisecracks came roaring up on the back of his tongue, and Dean began firing them out instinctively.

“Guess I’ll have the strippers all to myself, then. I was gonna give you Jolly, cause Holly sounded a lot hotter, but hey, now I get to be Holly and Jolly.”

“Hilarious,” Sam replied dismissively. Dean knew that tone, and knew what was coming next. “Dean, you sure you’re good with this?”

“With getting two naughty elves in my stocking? Hell yeah.”

The warm bourbon feeling was trickling away, making him shudder as Dean remembered just how fucking cold it was. He looked down into his lap, noticing that he forgot to zip up his jeans. He didn’t bother to fix it.

“No dumbass, with me and Jess. Look, she’s been wanting me to meet her family for forever—”

“Hey, as long as you give her a kiss under the mistletoe for me with plenty of tongue, I’m awesome.”

“That’s gonna happen whether it’s from you or not.” Jess’s reply made Dean smirk.

“Good,” he answered. “Sammy needs to get away from those books once in a while.”

“Dean,” her voice softened, and Dean barely managed to hold back a groan. “I know you and Sam usually spend the holidays together, and I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to get in the way of that.”

“Nah.” Dean cranked the bravado up to eleven, hoping it would rub off on her. “It’s a Charlie Brown Christmas with me, but with you he’ll get to be Scrooge. Y’know, after he stopped being a douche.”

“He’s still your brother…” As much as he liked Jess, Dean hated the sympathy in her voice.

“Look, you’re gonna give him a real Christmas. That’s better than anything I could do for him.” The truth of that statement stung, but he didn’t let her hear it. “Just make sure he stuffs his face, and make sure the eggnog is strong. Sammy likes the stuff that makes your mouth feel like the seventh circle of Hell. And if I don’t get a picture of him in a ridiculous Christmas sweater, I’m comin’ after you.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve got that covered,” she assured him. “Don’t worry.”

“Good.” Dean shivered again. He glanced at the bourbon standing beside his mini fridge.

“Come over for New Year’s,” Jess urged. “We’ll all get drunk and watch the ball drop and make fake resolutions.”

Dean could tell she was beaming, and managed a halfhearted smile in return. “It’s a date. I’ll bring the whiskey and pie.”

“Dean?” Sam again. “So you’re comin’ down for New Year’s, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Dean shivered harder, trying not to let Sam hear the chattering of his teeth. “Have a good Christmas, and behave yourself, alright? I didn’t raise you to be a disrespectful asshat.”

A soft laugh, and then: “Jerk.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth lifted slightly.

“Bitch. Get some rest.”

Dean closed the phone with a soft click, and then tossed it aside, not even flinching as it clattered noisily along the wood floor. The first Christmas of his life without Sammy. He’d known the possibility was there when he left for Stanford, but Dean told himself that they’d make it work. They’d figure it out, like they always did. They were brothers, after all. Family. But Sammy had a life now: a good life, with a great girl and a whole future ahead of him. Dean couldn’t get in the way of that. For some reason he was too weary to understand, a dirty trenchcoat flashed in his mind. Dean rocked forward, scrubbing his filthy face with his filthy hands, feeling that the room was a lot smaller now than when he walked in.

-*-*-*-

Whoever said the sun would come out tomorrow was full of shit, Dean decided. They never had to fight with their shower in the dark while catching pneumonia in their underwear.

“C’mon you son of a bitch…” he snarled, pulling and twisting the knobs as far left as they would go. A downside of living in a piece of shit apartment: if the water didn’t come out freezing cold (lukewarm at best), it didn’t come out at all. Dean could adjust to the temperature, but not the absence. He _needed_ this shower. After last night’s conversation with Sammy, he had made a bedfellow of his bottle, and subsequently fallen asleep in his clothes. An alcohol-stained mouth was never pleasant to wake up to, nor was the fragrance of caked-on sweat and motor oil. It was going to be a long damn day at Santa’s Sweatshop: the big man himself was coming in to take pictures with all the kids. Which meant that Dean had to get there at the asscrack of dawn to set up the holiday throne, assemble and decorate three more trees, and make sure that every single surface was covered with fake snow. And he couldn’t do all of that when he smelled like the inside of a carburetor.

Admitting defeat, Dean checked his watch. _4:47 am._ He’d been fighting with this thing for ten fucking minutes.

 _“Son of a bitch!”_ he yelled, forgetting that the walls were like gauze and he was probably the only one in the building who was awake. He stampeded into his room, pulling on his jeans from yesterday and a semi-clean shirt. Looked like the showers at the Workshop were his only option. Dean seized his duffel bag and threw his ratty washcloth and towel inside, along with his body wash. Rushed though he was, he’d be damned if he was going to use the same bar of soap some other dude washed his balls with. Dean yanked on a flannel, grabbed his keys, and just barely managed to recover his jacket before barreling out the door.

-*-*-*-

He screeched into a parking space at just after five o’clock: a new record. He’d definitely put some wear on Baby’s tires, but he’d made it there without actually killing anyone. Just a few middle fingers from the bums that wandered out in the middle of the road. On a normal day, Dean would walk to the mall, since driving in the city was usually a royal pain in the ass. But the malfunctioning shower had put him way behind schedule, and this early in the morning, traffic was thankfully minimal. Dean coughed as he dashed across the mall parking lot, the cold morning air freeze-drying his lungs.

“Okay, shower first…then the throne…fuck, it’s cold,” he muttered to himself, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder as he reviewed the mental checklist of his duties. He went around the side of the building until he found the red, weather-beaten door that led to the Workshop. Dean climbed the two steps and rearranged the keys on his key ring until he found the shiny, green-tinted one. A green key for a red door. How adorable. As Dean moved to unlock the door, a realization crashed over him like ice water.

He really had to piss.

Without all of the adrenaline that got him here, the reminder of last night’s bourbon binge was painfully obvious. He shoved the key against the doorknob, missing the target.

“Dammit,” he hissed, legs crossing as the urge became more and more powerful. He was almost tempted to unzip his pants and relieve himself against the brick wall, but it was below freezing, and he wasn’t about to expose his dick to such harsh weather. He’d probably shrink in his hands and then get piss all over himself. Dean attacked the doorknob a few more times before finally hitting home, turning the key and yanking the door open. Every movement was stress on his bladder, and all Dean could think about was getting to the locker room. He slammed the door behind him and did a weird half-walk half-skip through the back stockroom. The duffel bag was falling off his shoulder and he gripped the handle like his life depended on it. The stockroom was a maze, full of boxes upon boxes of fake trees, inflatable snowmen, teddy bears, ornaments, and snowglobes, all stacked up wherever anybody felt like kicking them at the end of their shift. He nearly tripped over a heap of three-foot candy canes that some dipshit failed to prop against the wall. Dean scampered to the left, following the shadowy hallway leading to the locker room. His frantic footsteps echoed off the concrete, and he shoved at the doors, not even flinching at the way they banged against the wall. He charged into the men’s room, throwing his duffel aside and unzipping his jeans as he approached a urinal. Sweet, sweet relief flooded through him as the bourbon flooded out.

Dean sighed, almost obscenely. He shook after a moment, then tucked himself back into his pants. Thinking much clearer now, he picked up his duffel and walked around the corner to find his locker. The layout of the showers was pretty convenient: a row of four stalls on one wall, and a set of four lockers tucked in the corner. The stalls were deep enough so that anyone who came in the door would have to walk at least two yards before they were able to see anything. Dean shrugged off his flannel and fiddled with his combination lock, popping it open and shoving his duffel inside. He sighed with renewed annoyance at the jingling of his uniform. Dean refused to carry that bell-covered nightmare to and from work, so he left it in his locker to the mercy of the rats. He replaced his towel, washcloth and body wash with his jeans and t-shirt, then reached into the first stall and turned on the water. Dean hung up his towel on the hook beside the shower and checked the warmth of the water before pulling off his underwear and tucking it between his clothes. With his soap in one hand and washcloth in the other, Dean stepped beneath the spray.

The water was warm and refreshing. Dean ran his hands through his hair, feeling the remnants of yesterday’s grime trickle down his skin. He scrubbed with his fingers, letting the water soak through his hair. He poured some soap into his washcloth and rubbed it over his body, watching the liquid line of dirt curl into the drain. As he worked the lather over his skin, Dean closed his eyes and let his mind drift. He thought about what he would do for Christmas now that he wouldn’t be making a trip to California. Benny might be able to go out for a few drinks on Christmas Eve, but he’d be spending the next day with his goddaughter. Garth and Ash were cool to work with, but Dean couldn’t see himself hanging with either of them on Christmas Day. He could probably find a lonely chick at a bar and convince her to let him into her bed. Or maybe he wouldn’t do anything at all. Maybe he’d just buy himself a new bottle of whiskey and see how much he could chug before passing out. It sounded dismal, but without Sammy to entertain, Dean just didn’t see the point of celebrating Christmas.

With thoughts of Christmas came thoughts of Santa Claus, and Dean remembered that the jolly son of a bitch was coming into the Workshop in a matter of hours. He didn’t have to clock in until 5:30, so he still had a little bit of time to indulge in his shower. Dean worked the soap into his hair, absentmindedly humming a carol under his breath. He caught himself, and stopped. Goddamnit. Even in the shower he couldn’t escape Christmas music. Dean scrubbed harder, hoping to scrub the melody out of his brain. He hummed Metallica instead, but the notes didn’t sound right. The Christmas tune was nestled in like a parasite. He sighed in frustration. He knew he had to hear the damn thing, otherwise it would be in his head all day. Threading his fingers through his clean, wet hair, Dean began to sing quietly.

_“Santa baby_  
 _Just slip a Sable under the tree_  
 _For me_  
 _I’ve been an awful good girl--er, boy_  
 _Santa baby_  
 _So hurry down the chimney tonight…”_

Dean rinsed tiny suds from his shoulders as he sang. He ran his hands along his arms, thinking of long blonde hair and kind eyes. His heart started to ache a little, but he did not cry. Instead, comfortable in his solitude, Dean raised his voice above the running water.

_“Santa baby_  
 _A ’54 convertible too_  
 _Light blue_  
 _I’ll wait up for you, dear_  
 _Santa baby_  
 _So hurry down the chimney tonight…”_

He felt like he was five years old again, sitting in the kitchen watching his mom bake while she sang this song. Her floral apron was stained with flour, hands wet from washing the apples. She loved this song. Dean smiled sadly before abandoning his reluctance. This song would always be the exception. He closed his eyes and sang louder, his voice reverberating off the tile.

_“Think of all the fun I’ve missed_  
 _Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed_  
 _Next year I could be just as good_  
 _If you’ll check off my Christmas list_  
 _Ba-doop-ba-doo…”_

“Christmas carols are very confusing.”

Dean almost broke his neck from how violently he slipped. Castiel’s voice was close: right on the other side of Dean’s stall, where his towel hung. His hands automatically darted down to cover himself, as though Castiel could see through the two feet of cement and tile that separated them. How the fuck did he get in? And exactly how long had he been there? Dean hadn’t even heard him come in. Dean’s skin burned, but not from the warm water still pouring down on him.

“What are you doing?! Get the hell out of here!”

Dean batted the shower handle, and the spray slowed into a trickle, dripping down his spine.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable—”

“Dude, just get out! Don't fucking look at me!”

He stood motionless until he heard the other man’s footsteps fade out into the hallway, and even then Dean waited an extra two minutes, just to be safe. He exhaled in frustration and ran a hand down his face before reaching around the wall to grab his towel. He dried his body hurriedly before wrapping the towel securely around his waist. Dean walked to the sinks, wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at his own messy hair and tired eyes.

Seriously, what was up with this guy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HNNNNGGGHHH I am so sorry this took so long to update! School was eating me alive and then pooping me out, but now I'm free! I tried to make this chapter extra long, just for you. I also apologize for the awkward ending...honestly, I suck at those. I promise, next chapter will be much more Destiel fluff and loveliness! Cheers, darlings~


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